


Play Acting

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Control, F/M, Ice Queen, Jealousy, Marking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 06:52:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She knows how to play him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Play Acting

He’s been watching her all evening.

Sansa had finally put her widow’s weeds away, after a more than respectable period of mourning—no one could say that she didn’t grieve her hawk husband, for look how she lingered even when she knew she must marry!—and they were entertaining for the first time in months. The party was more than a little merry, exploding with all the pent-up energy that had grown over the mourning period, had been growing all throughout this horrid winter. Though even with the snows thick on the ground The Gates of the Moon were alive and the wine flowed freely—Arbor Gold, stashed away for just such an occasion.

Sansa had only had two glasses—Petyr had counted—but her cheeks were rosy, her laughter light. He knew she was playing the drunken flirt, had seen her practice the moves and the words again and again. Knew, from experience, what a real blush looked like on those cheeks.

The lords that were merrily fighting for her attention didn’t, though, and the eagerness in their eyes made him hate each and every one of them. If a marriage came out of this, that would be different—marriages were merely moves in the game. But these men were far too low for a Stark (oh, how he loved saying someone was, _far too low_ ), their drunkenness not at act, their desires base and obvious. Sansa knows all this, surely. She’s playing them.

It’s only when a particularly comely youth leans in to whisper in her ear, letting his hand tease some threads of her hair, and Sansa slowly smiles as she meets Petyr’s eyes that he realizes she’s playing him as well.

\----

They’re finally alone some time in the early morning, their guests having finally gone, sated if not a bit disappointed, to their beds. 

Petyr had watched her say her goodbyes, noted the flirtatious tone of her words, the way she skated the edge of anything less that respectable. It was magnificent, really, a master class in control.

He knows he should be proud of her, knows he should take credit in bringing out that skill so beautifully. Knows, further, that she’s doing this all to get a rise out of him, that every time his blood rose she was gaining more and more control. He knows that he drank too much in compensation and now he’s grateful to be alone with her, no longer having to worry about appearing sloppy.

(He knows he should be on edge at all times, but even after seeing her bring death with a smile he can’t quite help himself from relaxing just a bit, from making this a true alliance). 

They’re alone in his solar, the room dark save for the massive fire burning in one corner. He’s still watching her carefully, noting the positively wicked grin on her face, the way she struggles to appear innocent. Perhaps she’s drunker than he gave her credit for, or maybe she feels as foolishly unguarded around him as he does her. He chooses to believe the latter.

“Our poor guests,” he says, and she laughs lightly, the tone slightly darker than the one used downstairs. He holds on to that difference.

“They don’t suffer any,” Sansa responds, and closes the distance between them. They’re both in front of the fire now, the heat welcome although nothing compared to the warmth that rushes through him when she links her arm through his.

“You know you can’t have any of them, don’t you?”

“Who says I would want them?” she smiles at him, a cutting smile that never would have been there years earlier. He hates himself for savoring it. 

Petyr turns, catching her at the waist. She’s nearly as tall as he is now; she looks him straight in the eye. Her expression hasn’t changed much since they entered the room—still sly, still knowing. 

He loves and hates her in equal measure. 

He tightens his hold a bit, pressing their bodies together. She sighs, slightly, and he can’t tell if it’s natural or not. 

“Such a flirt,” he hisses. “I thought you knew more about discretion.” 

“I’m not the one who falls apart when a lord smiles at me.” 

He claims her mouth then, not wanting to hear any more, not knowing how to respond. She kisses him back, teeth sharp, and allows him to press her down to the rushes. 

They take their pleasure wherever they can get it. She’s no longer playing his daughter (though sometimes, in the heat of the moment, she would whisper the most wicked phrases, reminders of that time) but he’s still seen as nothing more than her protector, and her as nothing more than an innocent widow, wanting nothing more than a return home. 

But even still, the floor was a bit rough. And perhaps he had drank a bit too much, for his hands were ripping at her clothing with a viciousness that he hadn’t felt until that moment. He has her nearly nude in minutes, nothing left but her stockings, and admires the way her body responds to his touch, the way her nipples peak with the swipe of his tongue, the way she’s already wet when he slides his fingers between her legs. He still almost fully dressed, the feel of silk against her bare skin adding to the pleasure. He savors it all, but nothing is more precious than that sharp intake of breath when he enters her, a tremor of the body that he knows is not fake. 

“Is this what you wanted?” he rasps at the juncture of his neck, listening to the noises he draws from her, the cry of pleasure when he bites down. 

She starts to speak but doesn’t finish her sentence. One slim leg hooks around his back and she lifts her hips just a bit, allowing him a deeper stroke. Her nails are sharp against his shoulders, her hair a mess, and he knows that he’s right. 

\----

In the morning, they great the red-eyed guests, all of them a bit worse for wear. No one remarks on Sansa’s high-necked gown, such a change from last night’s ensemble, nor even the cold courtesy of her demeanor. 

Petyr still watches her carefully, though, mapping in his head the marks on her skin, staring down any lord that tries and fails to break through her ice. 

He can think of nothing sweeter than watching them fail, one by one, Sansa’s cries echoing in his mind.


End file.
